


A New Chapter

by 221watson, havetardiswilltimetravel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (some of these tags will be in subsequent chapters), ALL OF THE HURT/COMFORT, Aftermath of Torture, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, John Loves Sherlock, M/M, Nightmares, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Empty Hearse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, References to Torture, Scarred Sherlock, Scars, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Loves John, Trauma, from his time away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221watson/pseuds/221watson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/havetardiswilltimetravel/pseuds/havetardiswilltimetravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back from the dead, and John feels like he's been resurrected as well. It’s everything Sherlock worked for, and everything John asked for. But scars have left their mark, and the grief and memories of the past two years don't fade easily.</p>
<p>[Set the day after Sherlock's press conference (seen at the end of The Empty Hearse). Contains spoilers for The Empty Hearse, but from there on it won't confine itself to canon.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in the works for a while. We both hated that, in the show, they didn’t go into anything about Sherlock’s time away once he was home. His scars, his possible PTSD, everything that hurt him, everything that wouldn’t leave him be. We got hints, but they were subtle and nowhere near what Sherlock deserved (though we do understand that other plottish things had to happen). We’re still hoping that it’ll be addressed later in the show, but until then, this came about! We hope you enjoy.
> 
> Thank you so so much to our betas: drawolliedraw, bookbelle494, and ladymacphisto. You guys are amazing ^_^

The day was half over, yet Sherlock Holmes sat curled into a ball on the weathered couch in 221b, grey t-shirt and sleep pants loose on his form and dressing gown drawn tight around him. Lack of sleep was finally taking its toll, but he was determined to keep his eyes open.

_It’s just transport..._ he repeated the well-worn mantra in his head, willing himself to believe it. John used to scold him, used to tell him transport still needed fuel and maintenance. And while he had brushed the concern off every time, it was obvious now more than ever that his friend had been right. The world seemed slightly out of touch and each movement was hampered by fatigue. The set of his mouth grew all the more stubborn. It didn’t matter.

The two times his body had betrayed him and given in to exhaustion since he’d returned, he’d been back on the run, back in chains, back in that dank cellar trying not to make a sound while the Baron’s men beat him, whipped him, burnt him. He didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction, but eventually, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. That was when he’d wake up, his hoarse throat burning, a shout choked off and then swallowed.

Sleep wasn’t important. He could forego sleep. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes.

_Sherlock Holmes._ He wished he knew what that meant anymore.

He’d been trying. He’d been playing his part.  Obviously, he hadn't lost his acting ability. The press had devoured every line he’d fed them yesterday, as had everyone else in his life. Even John didn't seem to notice a thing.

Oddly enough, that last thought hurt. But the whole point of his act was for them to go back to normal, Sherlock and John, ‘hatman and robin’. Why would it hurt that John couldn't look beyond what he was projecting?

He took a deep breath, filling his nose with the scents of 221b. He'd missed this couch.

_Sentiment,_ he thought _._ It seemed like he was drowning in it.

\------

John walked down Baker Street, taking in the familiar area with fond nostalgia. He hadn’t ventured near Baker Street often, not since the day he’d come to gather his things after Sherlock’s death. Two years later and not much had changed. Speedy’s was still in business, Mrs. Turner’s married ones were still next door, and Mrs. Hudson’s hip was still soundly in need of her “herbal soothers.”

He supposed he hadn’t changed much either. At least, Mary had told him as much the night he’d returned his key to her flat, murmuring quiet platitudes as her hand closed around it. His words hadn’t fooled her for a moment. Sherlock was, and always had been, his priority.

Now that the detective was back, alive, she hadn’t minced words: there was no room for romance in his life...not with her anyways. But she had said no more on the matter, only leaving John to think on her words as she closed her door.

The hurt that had flashed across her face still weighed on him. He hadn’t wanted that. She had been nothing but patient with him - when still in mourning, when his shock had threatened to overwhelm him. But the situation had been hounding him ever since the long-thought-dead detective had reappeared, and he couldn’t lie - not to her and not to himself.

They’d spent the better part of a year together, and he wouldn’t deny that he had felt something for her...something akin to love, perhaps. But it wasn’t like Sherlock. It had never been like it had been with Sherlock. It had been settling for the steady light of a candle instead of the roaring flame of a torch.  Settling for the quiet breeze of companionship instead of the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes.

He blinked back to the present as he reached the door leading to their - no, _Sherlock’s_ \- flat, feeling a bit lost. _‘_ Their _’_ flat had disappeared the day of Sherlock’s fall. But Baker Street...well, he still had the urge to call it home. Despite his reluctance to set foot in it since that day, with the detective there it felt more like home than his current residence ever had.

_It’ll continue to feel strange for a while,_ he supposed, _being back here with Sherlock. Strange...but good,_ he decided with a slight smile. _Definitely damn good._ Endeavouring to put Mary far from his mind, he straightened his back and let himself into the building, carrying the takeout from Angelo’s he had picked up in and up the stairs with him.

He expected to find his friend in the midst of experimenting, goggles on, the flat a whirlwind of papers and body parts, but instead he found Sherlock curled up tightly on the sofa, seemingly lost in his head.

"Hey there. Sleeping or sulking?" John asked, heading to the kitchen to set the food down. Sherlock's head snapped up at the intrusion.

"I brought food,” John continued, not waiting for an answer. “It's your favourite. And I bet you haven't eaten in a while.” John started unloading the bags, glancing over at the detective in the ensuing silence. Sherlock was staring back at him, looking oddly lost. John abandoned his task and stepped back into the living room, taking off his jacket and draping it over the back of his old chair. His expression shifted from expectant to concerned as he looked his former flatmate over.

_Christ...he looks like shite._

"You okay?" he asked, voice hesitant.

Sherlock blinked, his mask quickly sliding back into place as he unfolded himself and stood. 

"I'm fine. I don't..." he shook his head slightly, eyes flitting to the kitchen and back, slightly off-kilter. "Food?"

John’s brow furrowed further as Sherlock’s mind tried to work out why the man who hadn’t fully forgiven him was now standing in his flat with food and friendly words. The detective couldn’t make sense of it, and he found himself tense, his stomach clenched with apprehension.

"Yesss, food," John said slowly, tilting his head as he looked at Sherlock, the man’s words feeding his feeling of growing unease - something was definitely off. He licked his lips and leaned against the back of his chair, eyes searching his friend’s face.

"Are you sure you're okay? You look like you haven't slept," John asked, concern evident in his voice. He was sure Sherlock would deny it, but the bags under his eyes spoke volumes. He had seemed fine yesterday, before the press conference, but John was beginning to worry that perhaps he had just been too distracted to notice the signs of fatigue.

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes. "Trying to find something wrong with me, _Doctor_?" He stalked over, usual energy seemingly resumed, and peeked at John’s offering. John knew deflection when he saw it.

"Trying to watch out for you, _genius_ ," John retorted with raised eyebrows and a sigh, following Sherlock into the kitchen and watching him sniff at the pasta. "You look like you could use some sleep and something to eat."

"I get plenty of sleep," Sherlock retorted, the lie falling easily from his lips. "The lack of worthwhile cases practically ensures it."

"Yeah, right, and _I_ fancy your _brother_ ," John said, rolling his eyes and lifting the remaining takeout containers from their bag.

"You fancy _Mycroft_?" Sherlock quipped, raising an eyebrow as he rummaged around for some silverware. "Oh, but what would Mary say?"

“Well,” John said, clearing his throat and avoiding looking at Sherlock as he made his way over to his old chair in the sitting room, and they both settled down. “Mary is...out of the picture, actually. We decided to end it.”

“Oh…” Sherlock blinked, stunned for the second time since John’s arrival. He studied John’s face, and the doctor’s eyes moved to his food, unable to take the inquisitive stare.

Moments later, he was stunned himself as Sherlock murmured, “I’m...sorry.”

He looked up to scan Sherlock’s face, unsure if the sentiment was genuine or shammed - after two years apart, it was harder to tell. But he decided to take Sherlock’s sympathy at face value.

“Yes...well,” John sighed. “It’s better this way. We both agreed on that.”

Sherlock was silent a moment, the gears in his mind turning. It was clear to John that, like so many times before, he wanted to dive in, to pick apart the details, to understand WHY when a marriage proposal was all but asked...but John could also see the detective holding himself back, recognizing that it wasn’t the time to pry, recognizing that John was reluctant to talk further. And, for the first time in their relationship, it seemed that Sherlock would decide to distract rather than deduce.

"Well...Mycroft,” he intoned after a moment more, aiming for levity. “I can't say that I _approve_ of your choice...but I suppose I shall have to endure."

John chuckled quietly at that, grateful for the change of topic. It felt good to be back, teasing each other. It gave him hope that they could set things right after all.

"No worries, your brother isn't really my type," he assured Sherlock.

"I doubt he's anyone’s type," Sherlock smiled back, the action looking slightly stiff and out of place, and John found himself wondering how many times Sherlock had had cause to smile during his time away. "He doesn't care for goldfish."

"Goldfish?" John blinked in confusion, then held up a hand and shook his head. "No, no, don't tell me, I probably don't want to know. If your brother has a sex life, I don't want to be aware of it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, and played with his pasta absent-mindedly. "Neither do I," he said pointedly. "Which is why I expect your affair to be kept far away from my eyes." He shuffled more food onto his fork and popped it into his mouth.

John mock-sighed heavily. "Damn. I was so looking forward to discussing it with you," he said, smiling as he took another bite of his food.

Another quiet moment and John leaned back in his chair, trying to take a subtle but proper look at Sherlock. He didn't like what he saw. There was a tension about his friend that was unfamiliar, that he didn't understand. Sherlock seemed overly focused on his food, no doubt using it as an excuse to ignore the weight of John’s eyes on him. And he seemed hell-bent on keeping his front up. Maybe it was because things were still not completely all right between them, but John couldn't be sure.  

What he was sure of now, however, was that nothing was as fine as Sherlock seemed to want it to be, and John itched to push for answers.

“This is good,” Sherlock said as he picked at the dish further.

"No surprise, being from Angelo’s," John agreed, reigning back the urge to question and focusing on the positive. It was good to see Sherlock actually eat some food, at the very least. It felt good to take care of him, even if it was just this little thing, making him eat something.

“Was he surprised to see you there?” Sherlock asked, glancing up. John couldn’t find it in himself to feign ignorance. The detective obviously knew (whether by deduction or intel that John was sure Mycroft had wasted no time in giving him) that after his “death” John had avoided places with an abundance of memories attached.

“He was,” John admitted, smiling ruefully as he admitted what Sherlock already knew. “Don’t blame him after not seeing me for two years. But I thought...well. You’re back now, so we should have our favourite restaurant back too, right?”

Sherlock took another bite, nodding. After a few moments of silence John cleared his throat and got up to put the kettle on, thinking maybe it would give them back some sense of normalcy, this old habit of theirs.

\------

It was a matter of minutes before John put one of the steaming cups of tea on the small table next to Sherlock, letting a hand rest briefly on the detective’s shoulder as he did so. It was a casual touch, but Sherlock tensed automatically, and John quickly pulled away, hand curling at his side as the other man forced himself to relax, looking away at the involuntary response.

"Sorry," John said, sitting down again and sipping awkwardly from his own mug.

Sherlock quickly shook his head. "You're free to do what you wish," he replied, reaching for his cup and keeping his voice light, though his heart knew no such thing.

Maybe they hadn’t gotten back to normalcy yet, but he hadn’t thought it was _that_ bad. They'd touched frequently before; a hand on the arm here or a touch at the small of the back. But it seemed that had changed, too.

There was no reason Serbia should have followed him back, should have made him flinch at a simple touch, and yet apparently reason held no weight in its aftermath.

"Not if it makes you uncomfortable," John said quietly, wrapping his hands around his mug and just looking at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes flit away, though his mask stayed firmly in place, and John felt a pang of regret that his friend felt the need to use it around him. "I'm not going to punch you again, Sherlock."

"That’s not it, John,” he said quietly, looking up from the mug cupped in his hands and wishing they'd get off the subject. “You don't make me uncomfortable."

A mix of emotions flit across John’s face, but before Sherlock could parse them out, John spoke up again. "Are you going to tell me?” he asked. “About the time you were away?"

Sherlock winced internally, though his face didn't so much as twitch. "Why?" he asked, no scorn in his tone, no nervous edge, no curiosity...really, there wasn't any tone at all. It was clear it was not a subject to linger on, nor a road Sherlock wanted to go down.

John shook his head, ignoring Sherlock’s implied wishes. "Because you were gone for two years taking criminals down, and I have no idea what it was like," he said quietly, meeting Sherlock's eyes and holding his gaze. "I don't know what happened to you during that time."

Sherlock’s eyes grew shielded, unwilling to go down this path, unwilling to tell John the lengths he'd had to go through. If _he_ still wasn't ok with it, he couldn't imagine John would be. He was sure John would leave. And he'd be alone with his bloody nightmares and an empty flat. The detective refused to allow that.

"I took care of the threats," he responded, standing and picking up his food, heading back to the kitchen. "One of which seems to have been your moustache. I still don't know what you were thinking."

"How?" John asked, crossing his arms and standing as well, ignoring the mention of his moustache for now. "How do you take care of something like that? Not in any legal way, not in all cases at least, is my guess." He carried his own food in, coming to stand next to Sherlock and talking quietly.

“Taking down a bloody criminal network for two years straight.  I can’t imagine what you went through, _alone,_ but it couldn’t have been easy.”  Sherlock watched John pause in his stream of thought and mentally steel himself before hesitantly asking, “Do you have nightmares? Is that why you don't sleep?"

Sherlock glared at John, resorting to his base defenses. The doctor was getting far too involved for his own peace of mind. "I sleep _fine_ , John," he snapped, afraid John wouldn't back down unless he lashed out. "For God's sake, I sleep every night. It's _abhorrent._ I don't know how you normal people get anything done with so much time wasted dead to the world!"

John just raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, tilting his head as he looked at Sherlock. "That never worked on me, and it still doesn't. You've got bags under your eyes, Sherlock. You look like I did when I frequently had nightmares. I'm not going to stand here and watch that bloody mask of yours telling me everything is fine when it really isn't."

Sherlock stood there, panic welling up inside him, but he clamped down on it, hard, and narrowed his eyes at John. "If I don't sleep, it's because it's _boring_ ," he said tersely, dredging up another excuse. "Boring and useless! Besides,” he huffed humourlessly. “I hardly slept when I was away….why start now?!” He stopped, eyes slipping closed as he realized what he’d just said. Breathing out tersely, his panic rearing up again, he turned quickly to make an escape.

"Sherlock," John said, following Sherlock’s movements and reaching for his arm as his friend tried to retreat. John took a gentle but firm hold, not letting him leave. "Sherlock," he said quietly. "Please. Please tell me what's wrong. I can't help you if you don't talk to me. And don't say you're fine, I know you're not. Just - please, let me try to help."

Sherlock shut his eyes, listening to John talk, panic soon fading into a weary wish to be anywhere else. "And what do you think you can do to help?" Sherlock asked after a moment, voice slightly deadened. He was sure that if he avoided the topic further, when John already thought something was wrong, the doctor would think his suspicions confirmed. Likewise, he knew if he came clean, John's suspicions _would_ be confirmed.

He couldn't win. In the last two years, and even now, he couldn't win.

John exhaled, looking at the floor before taking a step closer to Sherlock. "Anything you think might work," he said, gently squeezing Sherlock's arm. "I can’t make the nightmares disappear, but...talking might help. Or - anything.” He finished weakly.

"I don't want to _talk..._ " he bit out, voice growing rough, not bothering to refute the nightmares any longer. But talking meant the admittance of more. Whatever John thought, surely he didn't know the full extent. And Sherlock was sure letting John in that much would only lead to ruin.

John swallowed before taking another small step forward and gently turning Sherlock towards him so they were face to face. He tried to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but the detective wouldn’t have it.

Sherlock swallowed, torn. He craved the comfort John sought to give, the closeness they used to have. But he couldn’t shake the fear that if he told John everything, (about the times he hadn’t been clever enough…about the blood on his hands, how Sally Donovan had been right after all, though he hadn’t wanted to...he hadn’t wanted to...) surely he would leave for good.   

"Whatever happened, Sherlock, it won't change how I think about you," he said quietly, stroking Sherlock's arm and hoping that the gesture was soothing rather than discomfiting.

Sherlock huffed out a quiet derisive laugh.

"I mean it," John said, squeezing Sherlock's arm once more as if silently willing him to understand. He could tell the man’s composure was faltering - Sherlock was having trouble keeping the cracks from showing through.

"Look, Sherlock, no matter what happened, you're still my friend, yeah? There's nothing that's going to change that. Christ, two years of me thinking you were dead didn't change that, so whatever this is, it won't ruin our friendship now either."

There was a heavy moment of silence, and Sherlock hesitantly looked over at the couch, considering his options. John followed his gaze and nodded after a moment, deciding to take the lead.

"Let's sit down," he suggested, placing a hand gently at the small of Sherlock’s back and guiding them both to the sofa. Sherlock allowed the touch, wanting it just as much as he wanted to shy away.

Resigned, Sherlock turned to sit as they reached the couch, but winced almost immediately as John's hand rubbed up against some of the wounds on his back unexpectedly - those just scabbing over and still sensitive. He tried to hide the reaction, wrapping his dressing gown tightly around him once more before sitting down, but John frowned.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Is something wrong with your back?" He crouched down in front of his friend and looked up at him, worry evident on his face. "What is it?"

"Nothing..." the word was quiet, face set defensively. But his eyes were sad, seeing the worry etched in John's face.

“Nothing. Of course.” John shook his head in frustration; they weren't getting anywhere like this.  "Take your dressing gown off. Your shirt too," he said, tone unyielding, voice falling into that which he’d used in his army days. Well, back then and when Sherlock was being a stubborn sod.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest when John cut him off.

"No arguing,” John said firmly. “I want to have a look at your back."

Sherlock let out a breath, setting his jaw and considering his options. He didn't want John to see them - the burns, the gouges, the lashes, the cuts, the bruises. But John's voice brooked no argument. There wasn't any getting out of it.

\------

For a moment John thought Sherlock might refuse. Seconds ticked away, half a minute passing before it seemed like he’d come to a decision. Closing his eyes, the detective shrugged out of his dressing gown, and a moment later, and with another hint of hesitation, he pulled off his shirt. Opening his eyes, he glanced past John's shoulder, quite obviously avoiding his friend's face.

At the sight of the bruises on Sherlock’s chest something cold settled at the pit of John’s stomach. "Bloody hell," he mouthed, not able to stop himself from swearing. The bruises were bad enough, but there were several scars - one of them a faint white line on Sherlock’s left side that had definitely been caused by a bullet. Some would call it lucky that it had only been a graze, but Sherlock had been shot at and he hadn’t been there to protect him from it...or from anything else.  

He reached out a hand to gently squeeze Sherlock's arm, trying not to clench his jaw and taking a deep breath. "I hope that whoever did this to you isn't alive anymore."

Sherlock hands clenched into tight fists, as if fighting the urge to move away. "Which one?" he asked hoarsely.

_Which one?_ Oh bloody hell, this was only getting worse. John stared for a moment, before slipping into doctor mode. "Stand up and let me see your back, yeah?" He had a feeling it wouldn't look any better than Sherlock's torso.

Sherlock's gaze shifted to look at John head on, eyes stubborn and unyielding. "It's exactly the same as my front," he huffed, resistance obvious to even John’s untrained eye. "There's no reason to look at it further."

"If it was like your front you wouldn't be so reluctant to show me," John said almost absentmindedly, eyes sad as he watched his friend try and fail to maintain his mask of indifference. His gaze travelled back down Sherlock’s chest, still distracted by the prominent injuries. His back could only be worse.

"Up, Sherlock. Come on," he said, offering Sherlock a hand to help him up.

Sherlock stared at the hand and then at John. He didn't take it. "Did it ever occur to you that I'm just tired, that I just don't _want_ to stand again, that I'm not actually keeping something from you?"

John sighed and crouched down in front of Sherlock once more. "You're Sherlock Holmes, and you're my best friend. I know you pretty well. So I can tell when you're keeping something from me,” he said seriously. “Please. Show me."

Sherlock stared, something softening in his eyes just slightly during a moment's silence. "Best friend?" John could see the barely concealed hope on his friend’s face. It seemed Sherlock hadn't thought they'd gotten back to terms like that. It seemed quite possible Sherlock had prepared himself for the possibility that they never actually would. But, despite their altercations upon his return, his status in John’s mind had never changed. Not really.

"Best friend," John said quietly, reaching out and briefly letting one hand rest on Sherlock's knee. "Of course you are. That hasn't changed, never will."

Sherlock blinked at John, brow furrowing as he processed, and after another slow minute, his hand crept over to cover John's hand, his touch featherlight.

John smiled softly, turning his hand over and squeezing Sherlock's for a moment. "Will you let me see?" He asked quietly. He was pretty sure Sherlock wouldn't have taken care of the wounds properly, particularly because they were so hard to reach on his back and he was too proud to ask for help at the best of times.

Sherlock's eyes moved away once more. John couldn’t tell what made the detective’s mind up in the end, but after half a minute more of silence, Sherlock shifted and stood carefully. John moved with him, and after another few moments of hesitation, Sherlock visibly steeled himself and turned, tension written all over his frame.

Immediately, John’s eyes widened at the mess that was Sherlock’s back, finding himself immeasurably glad that Sherlock couldn’t see the horror on his face. _Bloody fucking hell._

His eyes scanned over the intense bruising, the gashes and pits, gaze stuttering on the burns that littered Sherlock’s skin as well. There were old scars there, various cuts that had obviously been obtained in fights, but the new injuries...they looked the result of torture. And John could barely stomach it.

It was clear to John that Sherlock hadn't been taking care of them as he should have been. He wasn’t surprised, though he wished he’d been wrong. The slashes were scabbing over, but they looked irritated, red and inflamed with the amount of running they’d done, with the amount of times he himself had knocked Sherlock to the ground. Some looked infected. They wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d been covered by bandages. But he had no doubt that Sherlock had found them annoying and tossed the bandages aside the night after they'd been applied. John wouldn’t have expected anything different. Still, it was obvious that Sherlock would have new scars when his injuries healed.

John’s hands had clenched into fists without him noticing, and he had to swallow his fury down. As much as he felt like going on a murder spree at that moment, it wouldn't help anyone, least of all Sherlock. And the wounds definitely needed to be taken care of. Taking a deep breath, John nodded to himself, automatically slipping back into doctor mode. "Bathroom. First aid kit. We need to take care of these, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned without a word, his eyes avoiding John’s, and obeyed, every line in his body signaling defeat. Moving to the bathroom and sitting on the toilet seat, he clasped his hands together and stared at the patterned tiling, waiting for further instruction.

John silently fetched the first aid kit from under the sink, his mind still reeling, and came to stand behind Sherlock, briefly squeezing his shoulder before starting to clean his friend's wounds.

"I had no idea, you know," he said quietly as he worked. "I know it's stupid, but I didn't even think about what you had to do the last two years. What you’ve been through."

"I hadn't wanted you to know..." Sherlock winced at the sting, despite the doctor's careful ministrations.

"I thought so, yeah," John sighed. "Doesn't mean I understand why."

A minute passed in silence as Sherlock seemed to look for the words. Another passed just the same before he seemed able to find his voice.

"I...I’d put you through enough already,” he finally answered. “I had to do what I did...Moriarty told me what would happen if I didn’t...I’ve made my peace with that. I had to. But you've been through enough," he said quietly, eyes still trained on the floor. "You weren’t obligated to have anything to do with me again. You’d moved on. And I was supposed to tell you? Make you feel like you had to come take care of me? It's ridiculous. The last two years for me don't matter.” And God, how he wished that he could make that last statement completely true. “What matters is that you're _safe._ "

John swallowed at that, his hands stilling for a moment as he briefly looked away. "You saved my life, Sherlock. You sacrificed everything to keep me safe. Let me give some of that back...let me take care of you," he said quietly as he got back to work. "That's what friends do. They take care of each other, and you're my best friend...so taking care of you is what I'm going to do."

John let Sherlock have some time as he continued to clean the cuts and apply fresh bandages, watching from the corner of his eye as his friend struggled to contain himself, pale eyes misty, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, trying to control the emotional storm John had kicked up.

After several minutes, John turned his attention to the infected wounds. "These need daily cleaning, Sherlock. And that's exactly what's going to happen - I'll be here every day to do it, and I'll make you take the antibiotics you've probably been ignoring."

“They were tedious,” he mumbled, not quite able to admit John was right. “They got rid of my fever. I thought it was fine. Why keep taking them if everything was fine?”

John sighed as he kept treating Sherlock's wounds, shaking his head at Sherlock’s foolishness. “They weren’t just for the fever. Your wounds need to heal, and you need them to heal _properly_ , Sherlock. Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched at the familiarity that phrase brought back, and John continued working in silence. After a while, he pulled back to survey his work. "There, all done.” he nodded, putting everything he'd needed back into the first aid kit and getting rid of the soiled gauze. “Just need to take your antibiotics now and you're fine until tomorrow."

\------

Sherlock nodded slightly in thanks, not sure quite how to act in the aftermath, now that John knew something had happened. An entire _array_ of somethings, in fact. And though John’s reassurances had been convincing, the fear of abandonment and judgement still remained.

He didn’t move as John stowed the first aid kit away, only allowing himself to let what was left of his mask fall once John left the bathroom to put up the kettle (something he recognized gratefully as an attempt to give Sherlock a moment or two of privacy).

Immediately, Sherlock leaned his head against the wall, letting out a breath and clenching his hands into fists. His back stung. The bandages were uncomfortable. Every wound he'd been ignoring was vivid in his mind, and he couldn't help but map the injuries out in his head - something he'd been trying to avoid ever since Mycroft’s private physician had patched him up in the first place. And John...Sherlock let out another slow breath and flexed his right hand. John would want to know more eventually.

After a minute spent collecting himself, he stepped out of the bathroom and made his way back to the kitchen. He knew there was no use hiding.

John watched silently as Sherlock joined him in the kitchen, giving him a mug of hot tea before leaning against the kitchen counter and sipping from his own cup.

Sherlock’s eyes roamed John’s face, taking in his slightly furrowed brow, the concern in his eyes, the guilt in his stance. It was obvious John was still trying to wrap his head around what he’d seen, still mapping out every injury and wondering how often Sherlock had been hurt with no one there to take care of him. The guilt at not having been there (wherever there was) to take care of Sherlock himself clearly gnawed at him, but Sherlock supposed he hadn’t expected anything different. John’s quiet voice interrupted his thoughts before he could draw any further deductions.

"Thank you for showing me," he said softly, offering a small smile. "I'm glad you did."

Sherlock cupped his mug in his hands and raised an eyebrow as if to say half-jokingly, _Really? You're glad I showed you my collection of festering wounds?_

"Oh, don't look at me like that," John said, even grinning a bit at Sherlock's expression. "You know what I mean. You trusted me enough to show me even if you didn't want to. So, yeah. I'm glad."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile slightly. "I’ll always trust you, John." He looked away, taking a sip of his tea, perfectly made.

John looked at him for a few moments, his chest feeling tight, and set his cup down, making up his mind. He walked over to Sherlock, took the mug out of his hand and set it down as well before pulling his friend into a hug, mindful of his injuries. "I missed you," he murmured, inhaling deeply as he let his head rest on Sherlock's shoulder. "Christ, I missed you so much."

Sherlock breathed in as he found himself engulfed in John Watson's arms. It was overwhelming; the words they'd exchanged, the things he thought he'd never get again, the tenderness of John's movements, the warmth in John's eyes and embrace. He stayed still for a moment, trying to compose himself, before giving up, head bowing and nudging against John's hair, hands moving to clutch at John's jumper.

"John," he whispered sadly, emotion clear.

_You were all I thought about._ He thought quietly, unable to force the incriminating words through his mouth. _When they were doing this. When I couldn't figure something out. When I wanted to give up...you don't know how close I came to calling you, just to hear your voice, or letting you know somehow, but I couldn't, and I'm sorry. I missed you...I'm so sorry._

**Author's Note:**

> This story is marked as completed with one chapter because it ends at a good point and could be considered a finished story if we let it. That said, we do intend for there to be more chapters eventually. But the key word is ‘eventually’. The world isn’t working with us in that regard at the moment, but we both have plans for this fic and want to keep going!


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